


Hurt (Whumptober 2020)

by thirtythreepaces



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Whump, tags/ships/characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26824237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirtythreepaces/pseuds/thirtythreepaces
Summary: A collection of 31 whump prompts for every day in October, featuring my Fallout OCs (and their friends) being put through physical, emotional, and mental distress. Mostly various one-shots that will probably have a few AUs sprinkled in; specific content warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter when necessary. Check out my tumblr (courier-sux) for more info!
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Hurt (Whumptober 2020)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> August wakes up in the Goodsprings cemetery after a case of mistaken identity.

The job wasn’t meant to be his. He’d taken the small brown envelope, among other things, off of a subdued courier outside of town after being driven to desperation. Perhaps it was karma then, that led to August waking up in a graveyard with rope around his wrists and a gag in his mouth. It wasn’t the worst place he’d ever found himself in — crucifixion had already taken that unfortunate prize. But it didn’t look good.

Reflexively, he started struggling against his bindings. He was strong — had to be, after the all the times he’d been beaten down — but the rope was solid. Twisting his hands and feeling his skin tear told him that his own wrist would break before the fibers did. If that was what it would take to get out of this, then he was prepared to do it.

Caesar’s Legion, NCR, the unforgiving desert sun, his own father — none of them had been able to kill him. This wouldn’t either.

There was a voice then, prompting him to lift his head — an action that sent a wave of nausea through his body, threatening to pull him under again. Three men stood before him, silhouetted by moonlight. August could barely hear what they were saying over the deafening sound of his own pulse in his ears, and he didn’t care to listen any further. He lowered his gaze, turning away, and kept testing the rope around his wrists, squinting against the pain. 

It was then that August saw the open grave next to him, and his blood ran cold.

He heard grave dust crunching under polished shoes, and the voice was suddenly close enough to make out through the din. “You’ve made your last delivery, kid.”

August stilled as soon as he felt the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple — it was one way to make him pay attention, he could concede that. The cold metal was enough to shock him into a terrible realization.

This was it. He _wouldn’t_ get out of this. All those years spent fighting and bleeding just to save his own skin — all just to end up on his knees for something that wasn’t even his in the first place. August had never known how to lay down and die quietly, but it seemed that the world was about to teach him the hard way.

Anger was always at the back of his mind. It felt like since the day he was born, the world had decided that August would be its enemy. He had never known peace. But for some reason — his own sanity, maybe — he’d convinced himself that it would all be good for something. That every challenge thrown at him would simply make him tougher, and whatever victory he found sweeter.

Instead, all August had to show for his struggle were the scars marring his skin and a chip on his shoulder. Now it was all going to end regardless.

“Sorry you got twisted up in this scene.”

Empty words. August had heard enough of those to last a lifetime. He shook his head slightly, but kept his eyes locked on the lantern sitting in the grave. He didn’t want the face of his killer to be the last thing he saw.

“From where you’re kneeling, it must seem like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck,” the man continued. August wondered if anyone would ever find out what happened to him — if Julia would cry, if he’d see his sister on the other side, if his brother would even care.

The pressure at his temple lessened as the man backed away. Maybe he didn’t want to get blood on the tacky suit August could see out of the corner of his eye. “Truth is… the game was rigged from the start.”

 _Rigged from the start._ That was one way to put it. He’d been dealt a bad hand, and all he’d done was waste time trying to compensate for it. August squeezed his eyes shut out of disbelief — when he felt something drip down his face, he assumed it was blood. It wasn’t until the salt stung the scrapes on his face that he realized he was crying for the first time in years.

August felt betrayed, hurt, furious. Then the trigger pulled, sending a bullet into his skull that plunged him into darkness with a deafening BANG.

And for the very first time, August didn’t feel anything at all.

**Author's Note:**

> i know i'm not posting this on October 1st, but i'm still hoping to get all 31 prompts done by the end of the month - i just might not be able to post them day by day. we'll see!


End file.
